


let's run away

by house_arya



Series: He'll Always Be Yours [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, axgweek, so excited for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 00:56:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20201077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/house_arya/pseuds/house_arya
Summary: Braavos could not quiet Arya's heart or settle her longing for Westeros and the people she left behind. She'll always find her way back to him, and he'll always wait for her. Series written for Arya x Gendry week.





	let's run away

Braavos could not quiet Arya’s heart or settle her longing for Westeros and the people she left behind. She’ll always find her way back to him, and he’ll always wait for her. Series written for Arya x Gendry week.

_\-- let’s run away_

It was hard, sometimes. Gendry spent his days locked away in the smithy, pounding away at any steel he could get his ashen hands on. He breathed smoke and flame day in and day out, barely stopping to eat and sleep. When he did break, it was with a smile on his heart as he watched the inn come to life with the giggles of the young children.

* * *

Like Gendry, Jeyne Heddle worked tirelessly. She cherished all the orphans Gendry had grown used to and served her customers with unparalleled care alongside her younger sister, Willow. Their routine was a simple one, and he liked simple. At nights, Gendry would say goodnight to the children and tell them stories of a fierce warrior girl he had known and the small band of warriors that helped the innocent people of the Riverlands. He would tell them of the soaring red towers of the Red Keep and the Street of Steel, all stories from another lifetime.

But once they were asleep, he would always return to his forge and continue his work. He was preparing for something. He didn’t know what it was, but he was determined to be ready for whatever came. 

Jeyne sometimes watched while he worked. Gendry was often too focused to notice or care, quite frankly, but he did give a grunt of acknowledgment if she spoke to him.

He never considered why she was always sneaking glances at him or testing out various hairstyles. The Brotherhood often made japes when she wasn’t around, but nevertheless, he would shake his head and resume polishing his steel. 

Gendry was always of the oblivious sort. A little slow at times, and altogether not too bright, which is precisely why he saw no reason to object when Jeyne bade him sit with her by the fire one night. Together, they nursed a bottle of wine Tom had managed to snag a few months ago. She laughed more freely than he had ever heard, and he saw the flush settle on her cheeks.

The inn had been closed for several hours, and the children were all snuggled away in their beds. The customers had retreated to the quiet of their respective rooms, too, and so they sat there alone. Fire danced in their eyes, strokes of orange and red painting the empty room they now occupied.

He was rather content sitting and watching the flames coax the logs to feed the crackling fire. Jeyne’s voice cut the silence like a fine dagger, and he shifted beneath her touch. “Why aren’t we married yet?” Her voice was a low, hesitant whisper. She stroked his arm gently, but the wine had dulled his head and he didn’t pull away from her feathery touch. 

They practically _were_ married, he thought. They had even laid together in a drunken stupor once. But he didn’t love Jeyne, and he didn’t think he ever could. Gendry supposed they could wed, just for the simplicity of it. 

He considered their future together, what it would be like to permanently share a bed with her for the rest of her days. Staying at the inn, working at the single anvil the forge possessed. Nothing to call his own except maybe the wedding band he would have to make for him and his wife. And the hordes of children… No, he couldn’t stay here forever. Not with Jeyne or anybody, for that matter. And she would never sell her father’s inn or leave Willow.

“I can’t marry you,” he finally croaked out. In his peripheral, he saw her face fall. He should’ve looked her in the eyes while he denied her, _denied their future_, but he couldn’t bring himself to face that. 

“It wouldn’t ever work between us,” he continued, fishing for the right words. “You have your sister to think of and I--”

“--can’t stay here forever,” she finished, nodding sadly. The silence enveloped them once again. The tension was about to burst, and he squirmed uncomfortably while she withdrew her hand. 

Gendry thought of his friends, and the family the Brotherhood had come to be. Arya was likely dead, having been captured by the bloody Hound. He really should kill Sandor Clegane for taking her from him. Or he should go to her brother Jon up north and tell him how much Arya loved him and how often she spoke of him. 

Her love was fierce, and he had felt it when she asked him to stay and be his family. That was the biggest regret of his life, he reflected, while staring deep into the fiery red fury. The heat threatened to melt him to a puddle; sweat was beginning to gather upon his brow.

_Jeyne deserves someone who doesn’t yearn for a dead girl_. Jeyne was sweet and she was kind. Her eyes glistened in the light and were a beautiful hazel, but they weren’t the steel grey Gendry had been mesmerized by. She didn’t have the wild in her, either. Not like Arya.

Peace did not come easy to him that night. Surprisingly, the wine did not help lull him to the lumbering sleep he desperately wished for. Arya was all he could think about. He usually shoved memories of her away, but after tonight, the thought of her and her wolfish grin consumed him alive.

Less than a fortnight after Jeyne’s question, the storms hit as winter began in earnest. It had been storming all day, and a horrid wind screeched throughout the night. It threatened to shatter the windows and nearby thunder rumbled so loudly the children could not sleep. The inn was full to bursting with no room left unoccupied.

Gendry slept in a small room on the first floor. He liked it there, as he was able to slip in and out quietly without having to worry about waking anyone on the creaky stairs. Two of the boys slept by his feet tonight. They were small enough to curl around each other, and Gendry’s presence helped calm them as the storm raged on, violent as war. He could not sleep, but he was grateful that the children were able to find some small comfort. They tired easily with all the work to be done and the constant upkeep of the inn; those boys needed any rest they could find.

It came as a surprise to him when he heard the banging on the door. Somehow, over the howls of the wind and the snores of the boys, he managed to hear a knock. Gendry slid from his bed, careful not to disturb Jack and Alyn, and raced through the hall to the front door. He threw it open with a fury, ushering the stranger inside.

The stranger ducked inside and pulled off their soaking coat immediately. Once the hood was removed, Gendry caught sight a gnarled braid that streamed down their back. He assumed it to be a girl then, and he had barely started to say _We don’t have any spare rooms, but I’ll set you up by the fire_ when she turned and locked those cloudy grey eyes on him.

“Oh,” was all she could manage as he swept her up in a fierce hug. “How are you alive?” he breathed into her hair. “Gods, you should be dead!”

“I will be dead if you don’t let go of me, idiot.”

He quickly apologized and released her, but kept his hold on her arms. Arya quirked an eyebrow and glanced down at his hands latched onto her forearms. “Sorry,” he said while pulling away. “S’all right, just be careful you great buffoon,” she quipped. Arya turned around and glanced about the empty room. The embers of the fire gleamed in the dark; the only other source of light was from the lightning that struck miles away. 

Gendry ran his hands through his hair, staring at her. “You look...good,” he finally said. She snorted. “I’m soaking wet in the middle of the night after riding against the wind for an hour, and I look _good_? You must’ve only gotten stupider with age.” Arya spun on her heel and headed to the fire, hanging her cloak by it.

He followed her, throwing some more logs into the fireplace and poking at the embers, encouraging them to reignite with the full force they burned at only hours ago. When the flames began jumping at the wood with sudden vigor, Gendry turned back to the girl. _Not just a girl, a woman_, he corrected himself.

And it was true. Her hair, no longer chopped sloppily, still dripped onto the floor but somehow glistened with the drops of rain. He once would have compared it to dirt, just to get a rise out of her, but now he would say it was akin to the sleek brown coat of a warhorse, or the kind brown of Alyn’s eyes. Arya was not much taller than she had been, but she was tall enough to look grown, and her chest had filled out. Some of her baby fat had fallen away from her cheeks, and now she possessed the long face of the North. Her troubled eyes looked hardened by the years, but otherwise, they remained unchanged.

“We don’t have any open rooms,” he started, but Arya cut him off. “I can sleep here. It’s no trouble.” She swiftly cracked her neck, and then collapsed to the floor. Gendry scoffed. “No, you can take my bed. I’ve slept on the ground before. I do have two of the boys asleep at the foot of the bed, but-”

“You have _children_?”

Her calm and steady face fell away into one of shock. Gendry quickly shook his head. “No! I mean, we look after them, but they’re not mine, we’ve got about a dozen or so I reckon? I’m not really sure, I haven’t counted them all, but-” He didn’t get to finish that thought, either; Arya cut him off again. “Who is ‘_we_’?” she interrupted.

“Jeyne, she’s the girl who runs this inn. With her sister. I help out where I can, but I mostly work in the forge and try to sell stuff to passerbys in need of a good sword or two. I’m teaching one of the boys, and will teach the rest, ‘cept only when they’re older.” He was rambling now. “They’re still a bit young to be frolicking about the fire and steel.”

Arya shook her head in wonder. “Well,” she remarked dryly. “You’ve certainly built up a life for yourself here.” Gendry swallowed thickly. Her tone changed, and she spoke much softer now. She was still a skinny little thing, but the fire in her didn’t burn as brightly as it would have. It was more… controlled. Restrained, perhaps? He couldn’t be sure.

“Right. Well, I’ll stay here. I’ll see you in the morning,” she announced before turning her back to him and curling up. She laid her head on her damp arm, staring into the flames. He nodded stiffly and turned his back on her.

He returned in under a minute, draping a blanket over her. She was already asleep, and she stirred lightly as he covered her with the wool. Jeyne had sewn it for him some months ago, but he figured Arya would need it more than him.

Gendry slipped into a dream where Tom sang songs about bells and acorns. Arya was laughing and dancing around the fire, but when he tried to join her, she turned into a great wolf and bit his head clean off. His head, now decapitated, watched as she prowled away into a dark forest. Tom and Lem laughed at him, and Jeyne gazed at him coldly.

_You could have had me, y’know. Might still have had your head attached to your shoulders, then_, she said. 

Then darkness consumed him.

Gendry did not see Arya in the morning, and he desperately hoped she didn’t take off once the storm settled. He worked sullenly in his forge, only speaking to Alyn when absolutely necessary. His student did not comment on his quiet demeanor. 

For hours, they slaved away, studying the craft of metalworking. He showed Alyn how to curate the perfect flame needed to beat a longsword into existence, taking the time to explain every step and make sure the boy thoroughly understood everything, down to the last detail. Come midday, Gendry and Alyn returned to the inn to help feed the rest of the orphans (and themselves.)

He snuck a glance around the tables to search for Arya. Unsurprisingly, she was not there. He considered asking Jeyne for her, but he could already see the ice in her eyes as she realized that the girl who ruined her closest chance for love was invading her home. No, he could not cause her any more pain.

Alyn and Gendry returned to the forge after the indoor work was done, studying their craft until the sun began to slink behind the trees and their hands ached. Gendry released his apprentice come supper, instead choosing to linger in his forge. 

For a time, he stared at the helmet he was making before setting to work again. How does a smith’s apprentice take metal and shape it into a lion’s mane? Gendry bit down on his lip, carefully studying the crude helm before him. _Fucking Lannisters_, he thought bitterly. But deep inside, he knew he’d rather think about the Lannisters than the girl who showed up on his front step during the thundering storm.

Gendry thought of the nights he spent curled up near her scrawny body. He thought of her hushed whispers to him and her hushed prayer she started saying after they were caught by the Mountain’s men. A cruel memory stabbed at the back of his mind, threatening to break through. He remembered being grabbed by the back of his ratted clothes, Arya’s eyes going wide as he was chosen to be taken to the Tickler. Even all these years later, the questions burned in his mind. 

_Is there gold hidden in the village? Is there silver? Gems? _

Gendry set to work, biting his lip so hard it bled.

_Is there food? Where is Lord Beric? Where did he go? _

The metal was hot enough. If he wasn’t careful he would burn himself.

_How many men were with him? How many knights? How many bowmen? _

Bang. Clink. Bang.

_How many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how many? _

The mane began to take form.

_HOW MANY HOW MANY HOW MA-_

Gendry missed the helm and pierced his finger. He swore loudly, leaping back from his workbench. He shook his hand furiously, cursing every damned god he could think of. The fucking Tickler. Fucking Lannisters.

Fucking Arya.

“Careful. Don’t want to lose those hands of yours,” a voice said. Of course, he already knew who it was. He turned around, glowering at that little smirk that rested so easily on her face. “I’m fine,” he said evenly. (Inside, he desperately, desperately wanted to tend to it.)

She rolled her eyes and stepped in through the door frame. “No, you’re not. It’s open and you’ve been working with metal. You need to clean that.” Arya moved closer to him and pulled him away from the workbench, taking out a small vial. She poured it onto his hand before he could ask what it was; it stung like the seven hells, though, and it took everything in him not to recoil from its touch. Quickly, she took a clean gauze from one of her pockets and deftly wrapped it around him.

Gendry noticed how she held his hand for a moment too long. He _definitely_ noticed when her breath hitched as he yanked her closer to him. Looking down at her, he whispered, “Thank you.” She swallowed thickly before spinning away from him.

“I have a proposition for you,” she said. Gendry raised his eyebrow before gesturing for her to continue. “Why don’t we run away?”


End file.
